


The Things that can never come back, are several

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Christmas Caroling, Christmas Eve, Christmas stocking, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Hope springs eternal, or in Byron Hale's case, infernal.





	

“What in the name of all that is good and holy is that?” Jed asked, gesturing so that all eyes would follow. 

It was Christmas Eve and Mansion House miraculously smelled of pine and blown candle-wicks, Steward and Matron had managed to scare up four plump chickens who had met their end on the block and not due to old age, Mary turned out to have a light hand with dumplings, though she apologized for the lack of their caraway, and he, Hale and Hopkins had given a performance of carols that was not a total embarrassment, though the audience was captive, regardless of their allegience.

Now Jed was faced with something he couldn’t understand. A long, grey worsted stocking hung from the newel post of the great staircase, the heel worn and the darning inexpert at the toe. He stood with Hopkins and Hale, having just left the ward to scattered applause and Mary and Anne were both there as well, offering praise both sincere and snide respectively, as was expected. The holiday season only ran to so much cheer.

“Foster, you’ve never left out your stocking for Father Christmas?” Hale nearly bellowed. His color was up and it was undeniable that he had been the best singer, his voice strong and true and stirring, but it appeared that was his sole gift.

“When I was a child, yes,” Jed retorted. 

How long ago that seemed, those days when he and Ezra and Clara ran up and down the stairs, their father’s spaniel Cicero nipping at their heels, all excitement and gleeful shrieks. The stockings had been finely knit, brightly colored and ready to be filled to bursting. He’d liked the night before best, the promise of the festivities and gifts to come, everyone a little kinder, easier, Mother more free with her caresses, the cook with the fresh gingerbread. Even his father would close the accounting books earlier and linger in the parlor, telling stories of his own childhood, his voyages to the southern islands, the Christmas he’d spent eating hardtack dipped in rum. It would never have occurred to Jed that there could be even one stocking hanging in all of Mansion House—there were no children, save little Isaac Watts, who had a bed somewhere else in the occupied city, somewhere Mary was sure to know. What Mary and Miss Green and Matron had done was impressive and much appreciated but evidently insufficient for selfish Byron Hale.

“I should like to think we all have a little child inside us still, Dr. Foster, that spark of innocence in a dark, dark world,” Anne trilled. She tossed her head for emphasis, as if she were a girl at her first ball, and the incongruity only added to the inanity of her declaration.

Mary tightened her lips against a smile that threatened to mock Miss Hastings, but she couldn’t quell the light in her dark eyes. He had to agree—how much more difficult would Anne and Byron have been as children, importunate and demanding, whining and sly, she with her quick wit to save her punishment and Byron depending on a head of golden curls and that startlingly beautiful tenor voice to avoid the switch or ferrule. 

“I can’t think what you imagine the morning will bring you, Hale,” Jed remarked.

“Well, unlike some, I put my trust in God and Father Christmas. Between the two of them, I’ll surely not be disappointed,” Hale announced. “If you would, Miss Hastings,” he added, offering his arm to lead Anne up the stairs. She took it and gave a sort of sniff over her shoulder at the three remaining. Henry had kept his countenance during the whole conversation but started chuckling once they’d reached the first landing and were out of earshot.

“Did you never hear the like?” Jed exclaimed and joined with Henry in laughter. Mary allowed herself the smile and gave them a fond look; Jed fancied her eyes changed when they rested on him and wished he could swing her into a galloping waltz down the hall or give her a solemn kiss under the little cluster of mistletoe someone had hung in a shadowy alcove, a snare or a delight or both.

“I supposed I’ll find a handkerchief for him. I can embroider his initials quick enough and we’ve no shortage of linen right now. He’ll be wanting the orange in the toe and peppermint stick but I guess he’ll have to rely on Father Christmas for those,” Mary said. 

How dear she was, how eager to make everyone happy, even those who had the least reason for it! Jed guessed he couldn’t grudge Hale, as he himself was made happy by Mary in so many ways and he had never deserved her kind affection a whit.

“Yes, Father Christmas has his ways, Nurse Mary, never you fear. Don’t stay up too late with your sewing… I shouldn’t like you to doze off during my sermon tomorrow, even if it is a bit dull,” Henry said and nodded at them both, striding up the stairs two at a time. Jed suspected him of securing the mistletoe and now he wondered how else the man meant to surprise them tomorrow… 

“You must listen to Chaplain, Mary, as you surely won’t listen to me,” Jed said. She would already have a half a dozen more tasks to attend to before she retired and now she would be sewing for Byron Hale a gift the boor would never appreciate. Jed spared one quick, painful thought for Eliza, far away and disinterested in him, her letters few and banal, and decided to consider only the woman before him who was everything his wife was not. He could offer her so little, certainly not what he wanted, but he must try.

She tilted her head as she had when they were singing, when he thought she watched him and he felt proud to be the object of her attention. She had a queer gleam in her eyes, a happiness and a sorrow in one, a yearning that could not be said to be gentle or mild, that struck him and made him wish that Hale could be right, that God or Father Christmas would make each Christmas wish come true.

“Oh, I listen, Jedediah. I listen and and I hear, what you say and what you…don’t,” she said lightly, almost coquettishly, except for a catch in her voice. 

“I don’t dare, not with Nurse Phinney so upright and true,” he replied, wondering what she would make of it. She would know she had his respect, if only that was permitted.

“Then I shall tell you, on Christmas Eve, she is not here… only Mary. Merry Christmas, Jedediah,” she said and reached up, before he could demur or encourage, to give him a soft kiss on the cheek; that she intended, he could tell, and a second, slower brush of her parted lips on the corner of his mouth as she drew back, that she hadn’t been able to resist. He stood, quite still, and thought Christmas Eve remained his favorite, that she’d divined that somehow, and said the only thing he could,

“Merry Christmas, Mary.”

**Author's Note:**

> Today's prompt was "Christmas stocking" so good old Byron Hale obliged my muse with this story. I've included Jed's fanon sister Clara and embroidered a little Jed's family history. The title is from Emily Dickinson.


End file.
